Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1910 (Heft 29))

THAT TOULOUSE-LAUTREC PRINT !

IT does not really matter to which print I refer—it happens to be that of a
young courtesan, snugly tucked away in bed, and with the bulky form
of an older female, some monstrous representative of the “ oldest profes-
sion in the world,” standing before her in an admonishing attitude,—but
I do not mean to talk about Toulouse-Lautrec, his art, or the first exhibition
of a few examples of his work at the Little Gallery of the Photo-Secession.
In presence of such a collection I am apt to fall into a state of melancholy
depression. Realizing the life of such an artist, his bitter struggle, his solitary
position in the material world, the lack of encouragement and the scarcity of
genuine appreciation, even when fame has knocked at his studio door, I wonder
at the futility of it all. And when I hear altruists in murky eloquence speak
of an art for the masses, common to the whole people, an idea which grows
more and more rampant with the steady advance of socialistic politics, I feel
as if I should burst out into laughter, hoarse and sardonic as that which echoes
through the art of Toulouse-Lautrec.
How should an art as virile and fascinating, individually local and bitter
as that of this Montmartre bohemian, be appreciated by the many! What
fatuous, quixotic optimism is necessary to give credence to such a fallacious
doctrine. A lamp, an umbrella stand, a salt cellar, a Morris chair, may enjoy
the distinction of popular respect. They may grant pleasurable excitement
to the majority, but art is not a furniture store nor an exhibition hall of indus-
trial crafts. There is just as much difference between a Morris chair and a
Toulouse-Lautrec print, as between a Toulouse-Lautrec print and a Botticelli.
No, this talk about universal art worship is contrary to all rules of sound
reasoning. Democracy in art is the most illogical formula of reformatory
ideals. Whitman realized this to his great astonishment when he was “in the
sands of seventy.” It is naught but the belief of good-natured, harmless,
sermonizing little souls, foolish enough to think that they can remodel the
world. If we could know what people think (or more frequently do not think)
while they look at a picture, if we could put on record their fleeting emotions
and fragmentary thoughts before a work of art, we would be able to deduct
therefrom complete confessions of their state of culture. To take their esthetic
temperature, I fear, would prove a most ghastly experience.
As Whistler has so truly said, there never was an art-loving nation. There
never can be one. Every art expression—music, painting, drawing, dancing,
poetry—has its peculiar technique, and without a certain knowledge of the
technique appreciation is difficult, instinctive or accidental. The vast majority
have no time to train their eyes to the vivacious and colorful, and to analyze
why one object appeals more to the sense of beauty than another. Art can
be taught only technically. Froebel was on the right track when he gave to
children’s play an inventive tendency. It is of no avail, however, as the methods
become mechanical and imitative as soon as the child leaves the kindergarten.
The present system of teaching drawing is one by rule and rote. Even Chase,
Henri and Hawthorne, our foremost teachers of painting, are not exempt from

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